


what you remember

by stjimmys



Series: american idiot [2]
Category: American Idiot - Green Day/Armstrong
Genre: Blood, Choking, Drugs, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Guns, Implied Relationships, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Multi, POV Second Person, Physical Abuse, Sex, Suicide, i hope thats it, is that it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-24
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-26 19:46:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2664170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stjimmys/pseuds/stjimmys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's only a few things you remember about St Jimmy, besides the obvious.</p>
            </blockquote>





	what you remember

**Author's Note:**

> that one au where st jimmy is real.  
> id heed to those additional tags. if youre not cool with any of those things, do not read this.

There's only a few things you remember about St Jimmy, besides the obvious.

The first things you recall is all the times he ran his hands across your body, whether it be in public or not. Coasting, not stopping when you go to say, no, stop, and he stops you instead with a kiss.

The kisses were the second thing. Never had you ever kissed a guy before, so when he shoved you into the alley and his hands were still roaming the curves and contours of your body, the shock of it all was overwhelming. Hard, full of tongue, and you almost called it sweet at first, but thought better of it. He was like a fucking Sour Patch Kid, but never transitioned to the sugary goodness that you probably awaited for in a grocery store candy isle as a child. You could go for a Sour Patch Kid right now, actually. But it would faintly remind you of him.

The third thing you remember is the pure fact that he has shoved you into his apartment every night, pushed you into the mattress that looked as if it would break any second and fucked you raw, making you scream not only Gods' name in vain, but his own in prayer. He would be a strange feeling in your middle for so long that when you were finally done and he would move off and away from you and that feeling disappeared, you'd miss it. Maybe you shouldn't, but you didn't care. He'd sit on the fire escape, gathering himself in the smoke of his cigarette and taste of you on his lips while you gathered yourself in the fits of cold sweat and warm bedsheets that were imprinted by his hands grasping your own.

Another thing was the way St Jimmy would treat you, from human to object to anything he desired. You didn't pay attention to it, just ignored it when it happened. At least you believe you did that, anyway.

When he actually considered you a living being with feelings, he was careful with you, your whole body like fragile glass in his calloused palms. He traced the scars on your wrists and upper thighs for longer times than you've told your friends about them, kissed your fingertips until he couldn't breathe any longer, wrapped his arms around you from behind while you sat in his lap, laid his mouth against your neck and breathed you in. He would whisper into your hair and lips constantly, promising you – no, commanding you, you realise this now – you were his and he would keep you close, keep you safe from the nonbelievers.

But there were times that he wouldn't see you as a person and more as an object, a toy, a thing. He'd shout at you in his mother tongue that you didn't understand, got you wasted at bars and jacked you off in the bathroom, took you home and ignored your crying pleas as he touched you where you didn't want, abused you in more ways that one.

He took his hands to your throat most nights, squeezing until you were blue in the face and your eyes were closed and your hands stopped clawing at his own like a trapped animal. He left more marks on you than your step-dad ever could, ruining you and making you believe you were just a plaything instead of a human being. Most of the time, you believed him no matter what the situation.

He left at odd times, never giving a goodbye when he walked out, leaving you shaking and smiling and overall waiting for his return. He would rub his hand into your scalp, hold your face in his hands until it made you squirm.

St Jimmy lead you down paths you never imagined, gave you things for what he said was for health and wellness, and you did believe him. You believed every word he said. He fed you your vitamins and minerals when they were actually the pills your step-dad took when he was sick, knocking you out for what seemed like days but could have only been for a couple of hours. He made you feel complete when he stuck his forefinger and thumb between your lips and slipped a happy little pill down your throat, sending you on a physical and mental high you could feel destroying your mind and soul as St Jimmy held you in his arms. 

He traveled with you, taking you everywhere he went. He used you as a trophy in bars and clubs, made out with you in the bathroom while palming you through your torn-up jeans, making people jealous and disgusted and aroused all at once.

He whispered in your ear, I am everything you wish to become, you pray every night to be just like me, as he wrapped you up in his arms and kissed the side of your neck. He was right.

St Jimmy gave a needle to you a week after you met, helped you prepare it and yourself, pressing the cold tip to your skin and making you whimper but you you tell him, go on, get it over with and he does. The liquid that was once in the needle was now in your veins, making things barren and hot and your blood seemed to dry up as if you were in a drought, and a wildfire spark in its place. It burns a good type of burn, like the muscles in your legs after a good stretch, but more so. It lasted longer, made its rounds from your fingertips to your heart and down to your toes, leaving you with this haunting sensation when it leaves you in the dust and your veins are filled with plasma again, but at the same time left your begging for more. St Jimmy sat with you every step of the way, ran his hand through your hair so many times you lost count at two and rubbed your back until it was numb.

When you came down you were lazy and tired, kept quiet and napped for an hour or so until he woke you up with a small kiss on the forehead, like Tunny does. Tunny.

St Jimmy kept you from going into the middle of the busy street and into oncoming traffic, held you so close you couldn't breathe or move and felt crushed, but it would have hurt more with the first option. You hadn't seen Tunny in days and he only left a note saying, I'm leaving for someplace people will need me, signed with his chicken scratch handwriting. You believed he meant Will, and that he left you in the city all alone. But you weren't alone. You hadn't been alone since you met St Jimmy.

And when you met Whatsername. It was near the end of March, after St Jimmy slipped a little white pill in between your lips, your body was in flames until he dumped a bucket of water on your head like it was the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge and pointed up towards the lines of apartment windows. The you saw her. She was looking out the window towards you, seeming to ignore St Jimmy has he got you to your feet and shoved you towards her fire escape. You kissed her hard, as soon as you reached the top. She was shocked but into it, and so were you. Afterwords you and St Jimmy entred the building and walked into an apartment, sat on the edge of a bed together while you recited a letter you needed to write to your mother later. You mumbled something about getting somewhere but actually going nowhere and St Jimmy's words echoed in your ears, we don't need no stinking badges, and you spun around and got to your feet so fast it made you dizzy. The girl from earlier peaked out from under the blanket and waved at you, you said this was good after all. You fucked her into oblivion, made her mean the world. She put makeup on like you would graffiti the side of a building, teased and toyed with you until you were so fucking hard that when you were finally on top of her you felt like you were high on her skin and her eyes and the way her voice sounded.

But everything was so short-lived when St Jimmy made you go deeper and deeper down the road you traveled with him, making you go farther with everything you did and making you risk your fucking life for a high. When Whatsername found out she ruined you in the worst way, far more worse than what St Jimmy had ever done to you in the past few months. She shouted, you're not the Jesus of Suburbia, the St Jimmy is a figment of, your fathers' rage and your mothers' love, and threw you away from someone who said would keep your protected and into the cold hard dirt instead. She screamed she was leaving you that night and she kept that promise, unlike St Jimmy kept his.

He did speak the truth, however. He said once, I am an angel face with a taste for suicidal, and he wasn't kidding. One day after Whatsername left you so did he, and you never really believed this reality. Some said that you could hear a gunshot on that day. You went to the bay, a day or two after and discovered dried blood, a bullet and some glitter. That was all that was left. You found out the whole story a week or two into your boring desk job. He took the gun he would fool around with and casually point at you to the side of his head and blew his brains out into the bay. Someone that was nearby recalled him saying, Jimmy died today, he blew his brains out into the bay, in the state of mind, its my own private suicide, right before he pulled the trigger. 

You couldn't care less anymore. You've straightened your life out. You live back in Jingletown with Will, - who doesn't have a girlfriend anymore but now has a child – and Tunny, - he had gone to war, when you saw him get off the Greyhound a day or so when you got back to town, a girl on his left arm and a limp in his left leg. You owned an apartment with them both now, Will working as a busboy at a corner restaurant one week and as a Valet Parker the next. Tunny had an office job like you did in the city, being unable to work as a twenty-something amputee. His girlfriend, everyone calls her Extraordinary Girl. Or, at least, when Tunny talks about her – everyone nicknamed her EG. She's over sometimes, taking care of Tunny and Will and you before she goes to work at the hospital as a nurse. Heather and her new boyfriend stop by with the kid and you and Will and Tunny play with him. Heather named him Tom Dawson Jackson (her new boyfriends' last name). And you? You had no one. No one at all. Whatsername wasn't someone you ever brought up.

There was a knock at the door. It wasn't even 7pm yet. The sun was already down.

Will was on busboy duty until midnight.

Tunny was at the office until 9pm.

EG wasn't free until tomorrow.

Heather and her new boyfriend lived in New York now.

And Whatsername doesn't know where you live. Not like she would ever come back to you.

Another knock, harder this time. And a voice.

Johnny boy, he called.

**Author's Note:**

> im thinking about writing another one of this 2nd person fanfics but instead of johnny i write one for tunny. thoughts?


End file.
